He Chose Her Scratch Over My Dying Baby

"Are you always this damn sensitive?" my husband snapped, his hands lingering on his ex’s waist.

I stood there, holding our 5th-anniversary cake and my pregnancy secret. He canceled our romantic dinner just to comfort her.

So, I threw the cake away. Next, I'll throw him away.

——

Stella's POV

Today was supposed to be our fifth wedding anniversary.

I stood in line for two freaking hours on the Upper East Side just to get this Black Forest cake before coming to find him.

But the second I saw them, all I wanted to do was smash the damn cake right in his face.

We were at an indoor extreme climbing gym in Manhattan. The place reeked of chalk dust and the burnt-rubber stench of climbing shoes scraping against artificial rock.

Halfway up the climbing wall, my husband, Cole Callahan, was suspended in mid-air.

Those same powerful arms that National Geographic once dubbed the "Arms of a Climbing God" were currently wrapped tight around another woman’s waist.

It was Mia. His ex-climbing partner.

Six months ago, she got a minor sprain during an outdoor climb, and ever since, she’s been claiming she has severe altitude PTSD.

"Cole, I'm so scared... I can't feel my hands," Mia’s sickeningly fragile voice echoed through the cavernous gym.

She was poured into a skin-tight yoga set, her entire body basically plastered against Cole’s chest.

"Hey, you're okay. Deep breaths. Let me take your weight." Cole’s voice was low, soothing. The kind of infinite patience he rarely, if ever, showed me at home.

His right hand traced slowly down Mia’s spine, coming to rest right where her lower back met her ass. He hoisted her up. "Step on that red hold... yeah, just like that. You got it."

A sharp, sudden cramp ripped through my lower stomach. I subconsciously gripped the strings of the cake box so hard my knuckles turned white.

A few minutes later, they rappelled back down to the mats.

As Cole unclipped his carabiner, he finally noticed me standing there in the shadows.

He froze for a split second. A barely noticeable frown flashed across his face before he strode over to me.

"What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at the restaurant tonight?" he asked, wiping the chalk off his hands with a towel. Out of the corner of his eye, he shot a quick glance at Mia, who was taking a sip of water.

"The restaurant called. Said you canceled the reservation." I stared dead into his eyes, waiting.

Cole’s hands stopped. A flicker of irritation—and evasion—crossed his face. "Mia’s got a crucial rehab evaluation tomorrow. Her core strength is totally gone. She almost had a full-blown panic attack up there just now."

"I have to stay late tonight and walk her through it. Help her get over the mental block."

"Does getting over a mental block require you two to be practically glued together?" I dropped my gaze to his calloused hands—the same hands that were just feeling up another woman’s waist. "Cole, the way you were holding her... that crossed the line of just being a 'guide'."

"Jesus, Stella, do you always have to be so damn sensitive?" His tone iced over instantly.

"Babe, climbing is about putting your life in your partner's hands. That hold was incredibly tricky, and her center of gravity was way off. I had to body-block her to help her find the leverage. It’s just the angle you were looking from. I’m her lead guide. Her life is literally my responsibility."

"Stella, please don't be mad at Cole." Mia had drifted over, clutching Cole’s Yeti tumbler to her chest like a lifeline. "This is all my fault. I’m just so stupid, I can't get over my own head. If it bothers you this much, I swear I’ll just quit climbing altogether..."

"Stop it, Mia. This isn't your fault," Cole snapped, pivoting instantly to comfort her. Then he turned his sights back on me. "Stella, I get it. You’re an illustrator. You don't understand how extreme sports work. But you don't get to take your narrow-minded insecurities and project them onto the life-or-death trust between a guide and their partner."

The cramping in my stomach spiked into a vicious, twisting agony. I could feel a slow, warm trickle of liquid starting to seep down.

I took a ragged breath, fighting back the metallic, rusty taste of bile rising in my throat.

"Got it," I forced the words out through gritted teeth.

"I'm glad you understand." Cole let out a visible sigh of relief. He reached out, trying to take the cake box from me. "Once I get through this crazy patch, I promise I’ll make it up to you."

I dodged his hand. Without a word, I spun around and pitched the cake dead-center into the industrial trash can next to us.

The frosting hit the plastic bin with a heavy, sickening thud.

"Stella, what the hell is wrong with you?!" Cole shouted from behind me.